The Darkest Goodbye (William Lorimer) (10 page)

‘Must be a hard job. I couldn’t do it,’ Kirsty told her.

‘And I couldn’t be a polis, that’s for sure. You must see the dregs of society all the time,’ she said shrewdly.

Kirsty laughed. ‘Well, I attended my first post-mortem yesterday.’

‘With him?’ Nurse Milligan jerked her head in the direction of the ward.

‘Yes, he’s my boss,’ Kirsty explained.

‘Did it bother you? Seeing a dead body, I mean?’

Kirsty shook her head. ‘Not really. The pathologist is so interesting and we need to find out…’ She broke off and laughed. ‘Actually, I can’t say anything about this as it’s part of an ongoing investigation.’

The nurse looked thoughtful. ‘Can I tell you something?’ she began. ‘It’s about the patients here.’ The woman looked around suddenly as if to check that nobody could overhear her. ‘It’s as if…’ She shook her head, the bright curls bouncing under the overhead light. ‘It’s silly. I just… och, I don’t know. I keep thinking that too many of our patients are all going off… well, too quickly. Like that one last night. And now, poor Mrs Murdoch.’ She looked at Kirsty and then moved closer, whispering behind her hand. ‘It’s as if there’s some… angel of mercy putting them all to sleep.’

‘Really?’

The woman rose and grinned ruefully. ‘No. Not really. It’s just a notion I’ve had. Don’t listen to me. It’ll be the superstitious streak in me. Or else I’ve been on too many shifts back to back this week, I suppose. It tells eventually.’ She smiled and shook her head in a self-deprecating manner. ‘Better see how Mrs Murdoch is faring. I really don’t think it will be very long. Will you be okay here?’

Kirsty nodded, glad to be left alone with her thoughts. What a strange nurse! Imagining that there was some sort of spirit creeping away with her patients. Kirsty gave a shudder. Was Nurse Milligan trying to hint that there were unlawful activities going on in her part of the hospital? Would she have called in her suspicions to their local police station? Probably not, Kirsty decided. Yet, having the opportunity to speak to a police officer here in the ward must have been too good a chance to pass up.

She stood up and strolled across the room then looked out of the window at the city streets far below. The people were like tiny creatures from this perspective. Were we just like colonies of little ants, coming and going, our destinies a matter of chance? she wondered. No, that wasn’t right, was it? Human beings were more in control of their own fate, surely? But not always, Kirsty Wilson thought. She was becoming used to seeing some lives being ended before their natural time. Like that young drug dealer, Frankie Bissett.

She glanced back at the corridor where an orderly was wheeling a trolley along, the patient completely covered with a white sheet. Was this the patient who had died the previous night? Or a different one? There were always rumours about what doctors did at the end of a patient’s life. Mercy killings, some folk reasoned. Some things were perfectly legal, like the instructions not to resuscitate. But there was a borderline between what was permitted and what was considered an act of taking away a person’s life. An act that was simply called murder.

He didn’t make a fuss, simply nodded at her from the doorway and said, ‘She’s gone.’ And, as Kirsty moved towards him, ready with a sincere word of comfort on her lips, he held up his hand as though to ward off any unwelcome platitudes. ‘Just take me out of here, will you, Wilson?’

It was more than three hours after they had first arrived that Kirsty found herself driving DS Murdoch back from the hospital, a light rain swishing under the windscreen wipers despite sun shining through gaps in the clouds.

‘Do you want to go home, sir?’ she asked gently.

‘No, Wilson. Not yet,’ he murmured throatily. ‘I’ll have things to do later.’ He coughed then turned to look out of the car window as they passed the science centre near the River Clyde, the trees on either side golden in the afternoon light. ‘Let’s get back to Stewart Street. Need to sort out this Nottingham business and see if there’s been any development with Bissett’s PM. Besides, my own car is there.’ He looked back for a moment and gave her a rare look of gratitude. ‘Don’t think I could’ve driven over here myself,’ he admitted huskily. Then, pulling out a crumpled pocket handkerchief, Murdoch blew his nose and stared out of the window once more as though embarrassed to be seen displaying his emotions.

Kirsty was glad of the noise of traffic and the need to concentrate as they approached every junction. This was real life, something she could feel and breathe, not that overheated waiting room where she had lingered, waiting for this man’s wife to take her last breath. Yet even as she drove further into the city and tried to blot out the starkness of Irene Murdoch’s death, she felt a strong need to grasp Murdoch’s arm, give him some sort of comfort. It was a female thing, she told herself, this urge to console. But it was an urge she had to resist. Len Murdoch had put up an invisible barrier the moment he had come out of that hospital ward and his young detective constable had the sense to respect that.

It seemed too good to be true, Sarah thought, later, tucking a stray strand of blonde hair into the clip at the nape of her neck.

The day’s shift had ended sooner than she realised, the sound of female laughter coming from the staff lounge increasing in volume as the nurses on back shift arrived. Just two more days then she would have the weekend off before returning to work again on Monday for four o’clock, her late shift ending at midnight.

‘The night shifts always seem the longest,’ Grainne, a short, dark-haired Irish nurse, had admitted. ‘Midnight till eight in the morning is everyone’s least favourite shift. But, sure, we each have to take our turn.’

Sarah had nodded, understanding the need for round-the-clock nursing. And there would be a taxi provided for any of the nurses that didn’t have their own transport, the manager had told her.

As she donned her raincoat, Sarah felt a sudden qualm at leaving the nursing home after her day’s work. Ever since that encounter with Nancy Livingstone in the staffroom this morning, she had felt happier than she’d been for a very long time, as though the tears had somehow been cathartic, washing away her misgivings. Already it felt to Sarah Wilding that she belonged here. She’d begun to warm to the patients under her care, especially Mr Imrie, the man who had been a farmer. His eyes had followed her as she’d sat down beside him to read from his newspaper. The twisted mouth had moved but no discernible words had emerged, just a weak sort of groan. Then he had let his head fall back into the bank of snowy pillows as though the effort of trying to speak had exhausted him. What was he thinking? Sarah wondered as she left the nursing home and unfurled her umbrella. There was still intelligence behind these eyes, words and thoughts forever trapped in his damaged brain.

When the big dark car stopped by the kerb, Sarah slowed down, thinking that perhaps one of the nurses might have spotted her and was offering a lift back to the station. But it was a stranger, a man she’d never seen before, she thought, moving her umbrella and bending down to see the driver’s window being lowered. He must be lost, wants to ask me for directions: the thought rushed through her head.

‘Sarah Wilding?’

‘Yes, who…?’

Before she had time to take a step back, two burly-looking men burst out of the back of the vehicle.

Then Sarah felt her arms being pulled roughly as she was bundled off the pavement, the scream on her lips muffled by a pair of gloved hands, the umbrella tossed aside, somersaulting sideways across the deserted street.

Something sharp was digging into her side. A knife. It must be a knife.

She gulped, trying to move away from the pain but she was held fast in the grip of the two men on either side.

‘Who are you?’ Sarah cried. ‘What do you want?’

‘All in good time.’ The man in the driver’s seat turned to her with a grin. He had a strong face, a long jaw with a square, determined chin, dark hair that crept over his coat collar and a scar running down his right cheek. A scar that might have been made by a knife or a broken bottle, Sarah decided, her professional eye glancing as he turned back to watch the road ahead. His was a face she would remember if she were ever asked to describe it.

‘Where are you taking me?’ she protested, fear making her voice thin and tremulous.

‘Somewhere nobody can hear you scream.’ The man on Sarah’s right laughed, pulling her arms so tightly behind her back that she cried out in pain.

The one on her left nudged her deeper into the middle of the back seat, his elbow pushed against Sarah’s stomach.

Glancing at them in turn, Sarah saw one of them grinning through a set of broken, blackened teeth.

She shivered. Several of the inmates at Cornton had suffered from bad teeth; it was a sign of a deprived background, anybody knew that. But somehow Sarah sensed that this man had also done time, the violence emanating from him was almost palpable.

The one on her left was tall and skinny, his head covered in a black beanie hat, old acne scarring his angular face.

‘What you lookin’ at?’ he hissed, a flick of spittle landing on Sarah’s face making her turn away in a mixture of disgust and terror.

They were going to kill her.

She was certain of that.

Otherwise, why would they let her see their faces?

Sarah closed her eyes and trembled, panic rising through her body.

Oh God, oh God, help me
, she implored silently.

You deserve it,
a little voice insisted.
For what happened to Pete
.

I don’t want to die, Sarah told herself. I’ve done my time. I’ve paid the price for my mistakes.

‘Right, here we are.’ The voice from the front of the car and a sudden jolt as they stopped made Sarah’s eyes fly open.

They were parked off a country road somewhere, pulled into a grassy strip beneath a stand of chestnut trees whose shadows screened them from any passing traffic.

To the left was a dark pine wood and Sarah’s eyes widened in terror.

Were they going to take her in there? Use that knife…?

‘Ready, boys?’ The man turned and nodded to the men who were holding Sarah by her arms.

‘No! Please! Don’t hurt me!’ she whimpered.

‘Well, maybe if you’re nice to us we’ll be nice to you, eh, Sarah Wilding?’ The driver with the scar had twisted round now and was looking her up and down, making her feel naked and exposed to his roving eyes.

That was what it was about. They meant to rape her, Sarah thought.

And yet, this was no random abduction. They knew her name.

A glimmer of hope entered her heart: so far there had been no move to pull her out of the car, drag her into these shadowy woods.

‘Something you need to do for us, Sarah Wilding,’ Scarface told her. ‘A little bit of help to show how sorry you are about brother Pete.’

The man on her right sniggered as Sarah’s mouth opened in shock.

‘See, we need someone like you to help us with our business,’ Scarface went on. ‘Nothing too hard for a clever girl like you.’ He put out his hand and began stroking her cheek.

Sarah flinched at his touch, making all three of them laugh.

‘You wouldn’t want that pretty face all messed up now, would you?’ he sneered, grabbing a handful of her hair and drawing her towards him.

Sarah shook her head, trying to utter
no
but the word was locked in her mouth, that menacing face leering into hers, his breath smelling of curry and garlic.

‘All we want is for you to do us a little favour from time to time, that’s all,’ he said, his mouth close to her own. ‘That too hard for you?’

‘N-no,’ Sarah gasped. At this moment she would promise these men anything, anything at all if they just let her go.

There was that sharp pain again, in her lower back, near her kidneys. A knife?

‘What do you want me to do?’ she whimpered.

Scarface nodded to the men beside her and Sarah felt their bodies slide a little bit away from hers.

‘Good girl. Right, here’s the deal.’ He glanced from one of Sarah’s captors to the other, a crooked smile on his face. ‘And remember, go anywhere near the cops and they’ll chase you. Nobody’s going to take the word of an ex-con, now, are they?’ he chuckled. ‘And we know where to find you if you do anything silly.’

‘T
hat’s not what I expected,’ Rosie Fergusson gave a low whistle as she read the toxicology report. ‘Need to let Murdoch know.’

She dialled the number in Stewart Street then listened as the call was transferred by the switchboard.

‘Hello, Detective Constable Wilson speaking.’

‘Kirsty? Is that you? Where’s Murdoch?’

‘Oh, Dr Fergusson. He’s not in.’

There was a pause and Rosie could hear a sigh.

‘It’s really sad news. His wife passed away yesterday. He’s off on compassionate leave for the next few days.’

‘Oh, no. What happened?’

‘She was very ill,’ Kirsty explained. ‘It was expected. I hadn’t a clue about it but Detective Superintendent Lorimer knew.’

‘Hm, listen, Kirsty, who’s dealing with the Jane Maitland case? That elderly lady who died in her bed? I’ve got the tox report back and I need to speak to someone about it.’

‘Well, I was on that case with DS Murdoch, but maybe you’d want to talk to Lorimer himself.’

‘Aye, maybe that would be best under the circumstances. I’ll see that he finds you and tells you what he wants done.’

‘Lorimer.’

‘It’s Rosie. Listen, terrible news about DS Murdoch’s wife. But that’s not why I’m calling. He and Kirsty had a case the other day, an elderly lady who had died under what may have been suspicious circumstances.’

Rosie went on to explain about the unknown caller in the early hours of Monday morning, someone not scheduled to visit the woman in her own home.

‘There’s a high level of morphine in the bloods, enough to have killed her.’

‘Jane Maitland was receiving regular morphine injections?’

‘Yes, but not dosages like this.’ Rosie’s tone was grim. ‘I think we have something fishy going on here. Either she had a private arrangement with one of these end-of-life groups or else there’s something far more sinister going on.’

‘Right, leave this with me. I’ll have a word with DC Wilson and make sure that someone else can take over this case while Murdoch is away.’

‘Right, I’m emailing you the tox report as an attachment now. Let me know the outcome, won’t you?’

Lorimer put down the phone with a frown, turning his attention to the computer screen and the incoming email. Murdoch had called in to say he’d be taking just a few days off. So perhaps in the interim Kirsty would appreciate the presence of a far more senior officer. He smiled as he glanced at the calendar on his wall. There were several things he might need to rearrange, but the thought of handling a live case with his young friend was a temptation that the detective superintendent found irresistible.

There was a murmur as the tall man swung open the door of the large CID room where several detectives were seated at their desks. And not a few eyebrows were raised when Lorimer stopped beside their newest detective constable.

‘DC Wilson.’ Lorimer smiled down at her. ‘Just had this from Dr Fergusson. Think we need to take a closer look.’

Kirsty took the paper from his hands and read the lines of the toxicology report detailing the levels of substances found in the late Jane Maitland’s bloods.

‘Crikey!’ She turned her face up to Lorimer’s. ‘That wasn’t an accident, was it?’

‘Could be one of two things, I reckon,’ Lorimer said, sitting down in the vacant seat next to Kirsty’s. ‘Either Miss Maitland had made some sort of arrangement with a private organisation, and we’re talking voluntary euthanasia here, or someone masquerading as a health professional gave her a lethal dose without her knowledge.’

‘Murder,’ Kirsty said quietly.

‘That’s what we need to find out. Though at the moment I’d favour the former line of thought. There were no signs of a forced entry, correct?’

Kirsty nodded as Lorimer continued.

‘And as the woman was bedridden that suggests whoever came in had a key. I’ve applied for a search warrant for the woman’s home. Could be we find paperwork that gives us an immediate answer to this question.’ Lorimer shrugged. ‘Should be able to access the house later today. Think you could do with me for company?’ He grinned.

Kirsty’s wide smile was answer enough.

So it was that DC Kirsty Wilson found herself in the passenger seat of Lorimer’s silver Lexus, the leather upholstery sheer bliss, especially when the detective superintendent flicked on the heating on both front seats.

‘How have you been finding CID so far, Kirsty. Does it live up to your expectations?’

Kirsty gave a short laugh. ‘Well, I didn’t expect it to be so busy,’ she admitted. ‘A jewellery heist and two deaths all on my first day. Back in my uniform days it was more routine than that.’

‘Always expect the unexpected,’ Lorimer rejoined. ‘Bet your dad told you that often enough.’

‘Aye, and “crime doesn’t take a holiday”, “round every corner of the road there’s a motorist not looking where he’s going”. Heard them all at one time or another.’ Kirsty grinned. ‘Still, it didn’t prepare me for such a heavy workload.’

‘That’s what can happen in CID,’ Lorimer said. ‘We try to concentrate on one case at a time but crime has a habit of throwing stuff at us in a way that makes our life pretty difficult. And our manpower is always under a strain.’

‘Did you know the victim in the Byres Road flat, Frankie Bissett?’ Kirsty asked. ‘DI Grant said he was a well-known dealer.’

Lorimer nodded. ‘Aye, but he was small-time. Used to hang out with Billy Brogan and his crowd before Billy went off with other people’s money. Frankie was never big time but he would have been on the fringes of organised crime all right. Someone knows what happened in that flat. And why,’ he said softly.

‘There’s more manpower going into that case than this one,’ Kirsty remarked.

‘Has to be,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Frankie’s death looks like an execution pure and simple and we need to find out everything we can about the circumstances behind it. Sooner we know all about the people who lived there with him and all of his known associates, the nearer we’ll be to finding answers to who and why. Now, this lady, Miss Jane Maitland, what have you learned about her so far?’

‘Well, she lived on her own. Had been in that lower cottage flat for years, according to the woman upstairs. She’d suffered cancer for quite a long time. Spread all through her lower abdomen. She’d had surgery but preferred to stay at home in the end. Had a care package in place.’ Kirsty shrugged. ‘It’s all in the report. The district nurse who called it in was really helpful.’

‘And she said nothing that made you suspicious?’

‘The nurse?’ Kirsty exclaimed. ‘Goodness, no. I never thought that she might have been the one to have administered that dose of morphine. After all, why would she draw attention to the patient’s death like that if it had been her…?’

‘Why indeed. Maybe she would have left things as they were if the nosy neighbour – Mrs Doyle – upstairs hadn’t made a fuss?’

‘Well, she might have assumed it was a natural death. The poor lady was very ill.’

‘And how long had she been in that state, lingering on?’

‘Oh, I see what you mean,’ Kirsty said slowly. ‘If someone wanted to hurry up the process they might have taken steps to give her that lethal dose.’

‘And it might have been Jane Maitland herself,’ Lorimer countered, as the big car slowed down and rounded the corner of the house where Kirsty had arrived only a few days before.

‘I think we will pay a quick visit to Mrs Doyle first. Let her know that we have a search warrant and a key.’ Lorimer smiled. ‘Plus I’m curious to meet the woman whose suspicions started this all off.’

‘Aw, it’s you again. And this is…?’ Ailsa Doyle looked up at the tall man at Kirsty’s side, her heavily kohled eyes flashing with interest.

‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer,’ he told her.

‘Ooh,
detective superintendent
? So there
was
something bad about the auld yin’s death?’ Ailsa said, raising her eyebrows in a knowing look. ‘Come on in, eh? Ah’ve jist put the kettle oan. Tea do youse?’

And, without waiting for a reply, she walked back through the hallway, Lorimer and Kirsty in her wake.

‘Wean’s sound asleep,’ Ailsa whispered. ‘That’s how I wis gonnae take myself a wee break. Jist come on through tae the kitchen, will ye?’

The kitchen was a surprise to Kirsty after the disarray of the front room on her previous visit: rows of neat white cupboards and tidy work surfaces with a bowl of fresh fruit in one corner beside a sterilisation unit.

Ailsa flicked the switch of a stainless-steel kettle and drew out a large brown earthenware teapot that, by contrast, looked as if it might have been handed down through the family.

Lorimer watched as the young woman measured three spoonfuls of loose tea from a silver caddy into the warmed teapot, an old-fashioned way of making tea that seemed at odds with this modern-looking young mother with the pink hair and row of ear studs.

‘First oot the pot or builder’s tea? Whit’s yer preference, officers?’ Ailsa turned to them with a faint smile as though she had read Lorimer’s mind.

‘As it comes,’ he replied. ‘Milk, no sugar, please.’

‘Same here,’ Kirsty agreed, seating herself at the small table that jutted out from the wall.

‘Have you lived here long, Mrs Doyle?’ Lorimer asked, sipping the tea from a mug that had a picture of a sailing ship on one side and an anchor on the other.

‘Couple o’ years. Since we got merried. He’s away at sea.’ She nodded over her shoulder at the photo of a young man grinning from a pinboard that was fixed to the side of a cupboard. ‘Merchant Navy.’

‘So you would know Miss Maitland quite well?’

Ailsa Doyle looked shrewdly at Lorimer and put down her mug carefully. ‘Aye. Fact is ma mammy lives ower the street so we’ve kent auld Miss Maitland downstairs fur ages. She’s no’ been over the door fur years, except when she wis in the hospital,’ she said, turning to Kirsty. ‘Did ah tell ye that last time ye came?’

Kirsty nodded, though in truth that was a detail in her notebook that she would need to check.

‘We have a search warrant for Miss Maitland’s home,’ Lorimer told her. ‘There are several things we need to ascertain.’

‘Something dodgy going on?’ Ailsa smirked as though the event of two police officers investigating the death of her elderly neighbour was a bit of excitement in an otherwise tedious existence.

Lorimer shot her a stern look and she had the grace to lower her eyes and blush. ‘Did Miss Maitland ever talk to you about her condition?’ he asked.

‘Och, I’d sometimes pop in with the wean whenever wan o’ the nurses or the home help wis there. She couldnae come to the door so we didnae see her ither times.’

‘None of the neighbours had a spare key?’

‘Naw, jist the district nurses, the home help and her parish priest. Ah did have their phone number though and I wis wan o’ they – what’ d’you call thems – that emergency company, the one with the necklace thingmy… they had ma number in case she needed me to call the doctor or that.’

‘And had that ever happened? Did she ever alert the company in an emergency situation?’

‘No’ as far as I know,’ Ailsa replied.

‘And what about family? Did any family member have a key for the flat?’

‘Whit family!’ Ailsa Doyle sniffed, searching in her trouser pocket then bringing out a packet of cigarettes. ‘She had naebody. Never merried, nae brothers or sisters that I know of.’ She shrugged. ‘Kept herself tae herself maist o’ the time. Private sort of wumman. Hardly ever any visitors, usually jist the nurses or the lassie that came on a Monday tae dae her washing. She took in the Tesco delivery an’ all,’ Ailsa Doyle remarked. ‘An’ sometimes Faither Fitzsimmons wid go in tae see her.’

‘Mrs Doyle, I’m going to ask you something and I want you to think hard before you answer me,’ Lorimer said slowly, fixing the young woman with his blue gaze. ‘Did Miss Maitland ever talk about wishing to undergo voluntary euthanasia?’

Ailsa Doyle’s mouth fell open and she shook her head. ‘God, no! She wis a good Catholic woman. She’d never have done something like that.’ She pulled out a cigarette from the packet, fingers shaking. ‘You think she’d had enough?’ she asked, her glance flitting between Lorimer and the female detective.

‘That is one line of inquiry,’ Lorimer said smoothly. ‘If you hadn’t been so vigilant, the district nurse would never have called us in.’

Ailsa had lit her cigarette and was exhaling a line of smoke to one side. ‘See the man that came… thon fella I seen early on…? Ah’ve been thinkin’ aboot him.’

‘Yes?’ Lorimer asked, his tone quite neutral.

‘Well.’ Ailsa frowned. ‘I wis lookin down at him, right? An’ it wis dark. But I ’member something about him. Like a wee baldy spot aroon his hair.’ She glanced up at Kirsty. ‘See that’s ma trade. Ah’m a hair stylist. Jist do homers the noo, right enough since the wean’s came. But it’s the sort o’ thing I notice aboot folk. Thurr hair. An’ this bloke wis dark haired wi’ a baldy bit aroon the crown. Happens tae some fellas. Maist o’ them’ll gel thurr hair intae spikes, disguise it, eh?’ She took another drag on her cigarette. ‘But ah think this fella wis maybe a bit older. Forties, maybe? An’ he walked
out
– know whit ah mean? Like my Gary. See, Gary’s tall an’ he walks out, big strider, know whit ah mean?’

‘He wasn’t walking away quickly?’ Kirsty asked.

‘Naw, jist whit ah says. A lang stride, kinda loping. No’ in a hurry tae get away, like. Naethin suspicious,’ she said with a tinge of regret in her voice.

‘Mrs Doyle, you’ve been a wonderful help,’ Lorimer said warmly, putting down his mug. ‘I’m sure there will be a simple explanation for Miss Maitland’s demise but many thanks for being such an observant neighbour. And thanks for the tea,’ he added, standing up and nodding towards Kirsty.

As they made their way down the single flight of stairs, Lorimer was aware of a keen pair of eyes following their every move. Ailsa Doyle might not be the most educated of young women but she certainly didn’t lack a natural intelligence. And, right at this minute, Lorimer was sure that the young mother was working out just what might have happened to her elderly neighbour.